Smoke looked at the young puncher who had spoken. “Come here,” he said.
The young man, perhaps twenty at the most, quickly crossed the room to face Smoke. He was scared, and looked it.
“What’s your name?” Smoke asked.
“Pearlie.”
“You’re on the wrong side, Pearlie. You know that?”
“Mister Smoke,” Pearlie said in a low tone, so only Smoke and Louis could hear. “The TF brand can throw two hundred or more men at you. And I ain’t kiddin’. Now, you’re tough as hell and snake-quick, but even you can’t fight that many men.”
“You want to bet your life, Pearlie?” Louis asked him. The man’s voice was low-pitched and his lips appeared not to move at all.
Pearlie cut his eyes at the gambler. “I ain’t got no choice, Mister Longmont.”
“Yes, you do,” Smoke said.
“I’m listenin’.”
“I need a hand I can trust. I think that’s you, Pearlie.”
The young man’s jaw dropped open. “But I been ridin’ for the TF brand!”
“How much is he paying you?”
“Sixty a month.”
“I’ll give you thirty and found.”
Pearlie smiled. “You’re serious!”
“Yes, I am. Have you the sand in you to make a turnaround in your life?”
“Give me a chance, Mister Smoke.”
“You’ve got it. Are you quick with that Colt?”
“Yes, sir. But I ain’t nearabouts as quick as you.”
“Have you ever used it before?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you stand by me and my wife and friends, Pearlie?”
“’Til I soak up so much lead I can’t stand, Mister Smoke.”
Smoke cut his eyes at Louis. The man smiled and nodded his head slightly.
“You’re hired, Pearlie.”
“Pearlie did what?” Tilden screamed.
Clint repeated his statement, standing firm in front of the boss. Clint was no gunhawk. He was as good as or better with a short gun than most men, but had never fancied himself a gunfighter. He knew horses, he knew cattle, and he could work and manage men. There was no backup in Clint. He had fought Indians, outlaws, nesters, and other ranchers during his years with Tilden Franklin, and while he didn’t always approve of everything Tilden did, Clint rode for the brand. And that was that.
“Goddamned, no-good little pup!” Tilden spat out the words. He lifted his eyes and stared into his foreman’s eyes. “This can’t be tolerated, Clint.”
Clint felt a slight sick feeling in his stomach. He knew what was coming next. “No, sir. You’re right.”
“Drag him!” Tilden spat the horrible words.
“Yes, sir.” Clint turned away and walked out of the room. He stood on the porch for a long moment, breathing deeply. He appeared to be deep in thought.
Louis shut the gaming room down early that evening. And with Louis Longmont, no one uttered any words of protest. They simply got up and left. And neither did anyone take any undue umbrage, for all knew Louis’s games were straight-arrow honest.
He closed the wooden door to his gaming-room tent, extinguished most of the front lights, and set a bottle of fine scotch on the table.
“I know you’re not normally a hard-drinking man, my young friend,” Louis said, as he poured two tumblers full of the liquid. “But savor the taste of the Glenlivet. It’s the finest made.”
Smoke picked up the bottle and read the label. “Was this stuff made in 1824?”
Louis smiled. “Oh, no. That’s when the distillery was founded. Old George Smith knew his business, all right.”
“Knew?”
“Yes. He died six—no, seven years ago. He was on the Continent at the time.”
Smoke sipped the light scotch. It was delicate, yet mellow. It had a lightness that was quite pleasing.
“I had been to a rather obscure place called Monte Carlo.” Louis sniffed his tumbler before sipping.
“I never heard of that place.”
“I own part of the casino,” Louis said softly.
“Make lots of money?”
Louis’s reply was a smile.
It silently spoke volumes.
“Prior to that, I was enjoying the theater in Warsaw. It was there I was introduced to Madame Modjeska. It was quite the honor. She is one of the truly fine actresses in the world today.”
“You’re talking over my head, Louis.”
“Madame Mudrzejeweski.”
“Did you just swallow a bug, Louis?”
Louis laughed. “No. She shortened her name to Modjeska. She is here in America now. Performing Shakespeare in New York, I believe. She also tours.”
Smoke sipped his scotch and kept his mouth shut.
“When I finally retire, I believe I shall move to New York City. It’s quite a place, Smoke. Do you have any desires at all to see it?”
“No,” Smoke said gently.
“Pity,” the gambler said. “It is really a fascinating place. Smoke?”
The young rancher-farmer-gunfighter lifted his eyes to meet Louis’s.
“You should travel, Smoke. Educate yourself. Your wife is, I believe, an educated woman. Is she not?”
“School teacher.”
“Ah…yes. I thought your grammar, most of the time, had improved since last we spoke. Smoke…get out while you have the time and opportunity to do so.”
“No.”
“Pearlie was right, Smoke. There are too many against you.”
Smoke took a small sip of his scotch. “I am not alone in this, Louis. There are others.”
“Many of whom will not stand beside you when it gets bad. But I think you know that.”
“But some of them will, Louis. And bear this in mind: we control the high country.”
“Yes, there is that. Tell me, your wife has money, correct?”
“Yes. I think she’s wealthy.”
“You think?”
“I told you, Louis, I’m not that interested in great wealth. My father is lying atop thousands and thousands of dollars of gold.”
Louis smiled. “And there are those who would desecrate his grave for a tenth of it,” he reminded the young man.
“I’m not one of them.”
Louis sighed and drained his tumbler, refilling it from the bottle of scotch. “Smoke, it’s 1878. The West is changing. “The day of the gunfighter, men like you and me, is coming to a close. There is still a great rowdy element moving westward, but by and large, the people who are now coming here are demanding peace. Soon there will he no place for men like us.”
“And? So?”
“What are you going to do then?”
“I’ll be right out there on the Sugarloaf, Louis, ranching and farming and raising horses. And,” he said with a smile, “probably raising a family of my own.”
“Not if you’re dead, Smoke.” The gambler’s words were softly offered.
Smoke drained his tumbler and stood up, tall and straight and heavily muscled. “The Sugarloaf is my home, Louis. Sally’s and mine. And here is where we’ll stay. Peacefully working the land, or buried in it.”
He walked out the door.
10
Smoke made his Spartan camp some five miles outside of Fontana. With Drifter acting as guard, Smoke slept soundly. He had sent Pearlie to his ranch earlier that night, carrying a hand-written note introducing him to Sally. One of the older ranchers in the area, a man who was aligned on neither side, had told Smoke that Pearlie was a good boy who had just fallen in with the wrong crowd, that Pearlie had spoken with him a couple of times about leaving the Circle TF.
Smoke did not worry about Pearlie making any un-gentlemanly advances toward Sally, for she would shoot him stone dead if he tried.
Across the yard from the cabin, Smoke and Sally had built a small bunkhouse, thinking of the day when they would need extra hands. Pearlie would sleep there.